


Satan's Brew

by cupofinsomnia



Category: A Heist With Markiplier, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Crackhead Energy, Crack, Gen, Yancy is intimidated by one thing and one thing only:, unapologetic soy sauce consumption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-29 01:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupofinsomnia/pseuds/cupofinsomnia
Summary: Yancy brought the bottle to his nose and gently inhaled. He horked. “What—what on God’s green earth!?”
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Satan's Brew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skittlestriestowrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittlestriestowrite/gifts).

> I have posted 3 fics on this site and two of them are crack smh my head
> 
> featuring [skittlestriestowrite's](/users/skittlestriestowrite/) Incredibly Feral heistsona, Virginia, who would _not_ fight Yancy with her fists to get out of prison, but with her iron stomach. 
> 
> Please do not attempt what is attempted in this fic. I cannot be held liable for the consequences.

“So. Youse wanna break out of here, huh? Think you’re too cool for us, huh? We sing you a song, show you the ropes, make you feel at home, and you just wanna walk away, _huh_?” Yancy stared hard at Virginia and balled up his fists. Who did this punk think she was, anyway?

“Oh, it’s not like that at all, bud,” Ginny laughed. “I’m sure it’d be great fun to hang out with you all, it’s just…” She squinted into an imaginary horizon. “Adventure _calls_.”

“First of all, youse rejection of our warm welcome means you ain’t my bud, _pal_,” Yancy spat. “And secondly, that attitude ain’t gonna fly here. “

“I also have a husband,” Ginny quickly added.

Yancy narrowed his eyes.

“And! Honestly, no disrespect to any of you, of course, but,” Ginny gave her hair a toss, “I’m not sure you could keep up.”

“Oh, so you ARE too cool to roll with us? You wanna GO!?” Yancy raised his fists in a battle stance. “Jus’ cause youse a lady, don’t mean I’m gonna hold back!”

Ginny reached forward and lowered his hands. “Shhhh. That won’t be necessary.”

Yancy looked at her, then his hands, then her again. He felt his hackles raising. “Listen, _punk_, I don’ know what game youse is playin’ at, but in this joint youse either gotta _earn _your place or get your place _shown _to youse.” He raised his fists again. “Now get punchin’ before I break your nose for ya.”

Ginny laughed again, a cackle that rang through the room. “Earn my place, you say? Where’s your sense of finesse? I’d like to propose a different game, if you’ll allow me.”

Yancy faltered again. Murmurs rippled around the room. This didn’t normally happen. Usually, new people just threw punches or got danced to death and that was the end of it. But… he couldn’t deny his curiosity.

“Youse got some real nerve, punk. But I’ll bite. What game are youse proposin’?”

Ginny tossed her head back and cackled _again_. The inmates shuffled nervously. This woman was… something.

She walked over to the nearest table, reached into a pocket nobody knew existed until that moment, and slammed an unmarked bottle on the surface. Inside, some murky brown liquid about the shade of a baby’s post-watermelon poop sloshed around.

Yancy swaggered over and eyed the mystery liquid. “A drinkin’ game? That’s it?” he snorted. “Do you know who we _are_?”

A low laugh tumbled from Ginny’s lips, and then another, building and crescendoing into—

“Enough with the crazy laughin’!” Yancy blurted out. “Whatever. This’ll be a piece o’ cake.” He reached for the bottle, but Ginny yoinked it away and tutted.

“Not so fast, my dude,” she smirked. “You see, this isn’t just any old brew. I’m sure you’ve all drank some pretty strong stuff in your day, and believe me, I have too! Oh yes, I’ve had rum brewed in a pirate’s musty, sea-salted cap. I’ve partaken of moonshine forged in a hole in the ground behind a Waffle House at 3am. And I _even _took a swig of Hank’s toilet wine while you were all busy carousing. A good brew, Hank, I must say.” She winked at Hank. He blushed.

“BUT!”—she slammed the table—“you haven’t tasted ANYTHING until you have ingested that which the Devil himself brewed in his very. Own. Intestines.” She squinted at every face in the room, gauging their reactions. A few had inquiring looks, but many didn’t seem too impressed.

“That’s real cute, kid, but I can call a bluff when I see one,” Yancy huffed.

“Oh?” Ginny quirked an eyebrow and unscrewed the cap. “Take a whiff, friendo.”

Yancy brought the bottle to his nose and gently inhaled. He horked. “What—what on God’s green earth!?”

The smell of the mystery juice began to waft into the air, and vague sounds of alarm erupted from some of the prisoners as they registered it. It smelled as salty as a pirate’s briny, sweaty belly-button. It smelled as sour as a pickle that had been barfed up by a dog. It smelled as wretched as the underbelly of a cave worm that had been dead in the sun for an unspecified time, until some curious toddler poked a stick in it and ran away screaming at the maggots that erupted from underneath.

“This is no ordinary drink, little jailbirds,” said Ginny over the clamor, waggling the bottle in her hand. “This is an especially strong, _especially_-curdled brew of,” her voice lowered to a gritty whisper, “Soy Sauce Milk.”

BamBam let out a horrified gasp. “That—that drink nearly killed my motha! She was in the hospital fuh _weeks!_”

Yancy fidgeted. “I—I don’ buy it,” he said unconvincingly.

“Go ahead, then.”

He shuffled. He coughed. He reached out, then pulled back. “Wait. How do I know youse ain’t some dirty backstabber tryna _poison _me? After you, lady.”

Ginny grinned. “With pleasure.” And she tossed her head back and downed half the bottle in a few swigs. She slammed it back down and wiped her arm across her mouth, her eyes glinting madly. She hadn’t even _twitched_.

“Nani the fuck?” a nameless prisoner whispered.

“After you,” she said.

Yancy paled. Sweat was beginning to bead down his face. But he couldn’t go down without a fight.

He reached for the bottle.

“WAIT!” a voice piped up. Heads turned. It was the fast-drivin’, grass-smokin’, ass-eatin’ man himself, Heapass Jones. His mouth was worked into a twisted smile. “Heapass has tried some nasty stuff in his day. Heapass wants a taste.”

Yancy wordlessly handed the bottle over. The room stilled and the inmates craned their necks to see if he would survive the foul substance.

Heapass giggled maniacally and took a swig.

He set the bottle down.

He swallowed.

His face froze in a grin.

His eyes stared at nothing.

He collapsed.

Five very alarmed inmates rushed to his aid. They checked his pulse and slapped his face, trying to get him to come to. “H-he’s alive, but he’s not responding. Security! Someone! Call 9-1-1, please!”

Two guards rushed over, paging the medical emergency team. They lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him off. The word “coma” could be heard among the bustle.

Yancy stared at the spot on the floor Heapass had just been. Then he stared at the Satan Juice. Then he stared at Ginny, who was still completely conscious and healthy as a baby beluga.

“Y-yknow what, lady…” he started.

“Please. The name’s Ginny.”

“Ginny. Uh. Youse, uh… youse can keep that. Stuff. And, uh. I’ll… help ya out.” _If youse don’t bust out of this prison yourself,_ he nearly added. “Just… promise to keep _that_,” he pointed a trembling finger at the bottle, “far, far away from the rest of us.”

Ginny flashed another grin, laughed another laugh, and clapped Yancy on the shoulder.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”


End file.
